The Adventurers

by Harold Robbins

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked down at him. “You know damn well what I mean! Why do you think my father threw us together on this trip if not in the hope that we would become involved?”

  Dax didn’t answer. For the first time, he thought about it. It was exactly what the devious old bandolero might do. The direct approach would always be too simple for him.

  “It is over between us,” Dax said, “he knows that.”

  She stared at him. “That is really the reason, isn’t it? You have never forgiven me for what happened.”

  “There was nothing to forgive.”

  “It was not my idea to deceive you; my father insisted. I wanted to tell you.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does matter,” she insisted, “now. Then it didn’t.” Abruptly she finished her drink. “It always was you. But I was young then, and you were never there. So I fell in love with a man who reminded me of you, and my father had him murdered. After you left there was nothing, no one. When I learned of your marriage, I cried all night.”

  “You don’t have to tell me all this.”

  “I have to tell you,” she replied, almost harshly. “How long must I be punished? How long must I bear the pain of your thinking that I tried to deceive you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She sank to her knees beside the bed. Putting the empty cocktail glass on the floor, she pulled his robe away. He felt her tiny hot kisses on the soft flesh of his underbelly, and the power flooded into his genitals. She captured his surging phallus; her sharp teeth scraped him, and her tongue laved him.

  Abruptly he sank his hands into her hair and twisted her face up to him. “Amparo”—his voice was harsh, his eyes searching—“it is not the gringo liquor in you?”

  She looked at him almost shyly. “It is not the liquor,” she answered in a low voice, “nor is it my father. This is for me. He will never know.”

  He still held her in his firm grip, his eyes demanding the truth.

  “A few minutes ago you said it was over between us,” she whispered, “but you were wrong. It never began.” She pulled his hand from her cheek and buried her lips in its palm. He scarcely felt the movement of her lips. “Now it begins.”

  21

  Marcel picked up the telephone on his desk, and the secretary in his office downtown answered immediately. “Anything special this morning?” he asked.

  “No, Mr. Campion. I kept the morning free as you suggested.”

  “Good. I should be at the office before lunch.”

  “If anything comes up, can I reach you at Mr. Schacter’s office?”

  “No, I don’t want to be disturbed there.”

  Marcel put down the telephone and went out through the private side entrance where his car and chauffeur were waiting. He paused for a moment and looked back at the gray stone building. A glow of pride came over him. It was one of the last decent town houses on Park Avenue. And a corner, too.

  Fortunately it was not large enough to house an embassy or the price would have been prohibitive. Still, it was more than large enough for him. Thirteen rooms. The agent had laughed embarrassedly. “Some people think it’s an unlucky number.”

  Marcel had laughed, remembering all the gamblers who had fetishes about the number. One number had been the same as any other for him. The house did just as well on the lucky numbers as it did on the unlucky ones. “I don’t mind. I’m not superstitious.”

  The deal had been made, and he had moved in even before the workmen had finished the renovation. He couldn’t wait to get out of the hotel to which he had moved after his separation from his wife. He had the feeling that too much about his private affairs filtered back to her and her father. Hotel employees were very susceptible to bribes.

  Another thing he liked was the private entrance. Through it he could go directly up to his quarters, if he so desired, without passing through the rest of the house. This was most useful when he didn’t particularly care to have his servants know his comings and goings, or the identity of certain of his guests.

  Marcel had no illusions about himself. He had not suddenly become more attractive merely because his name was constantly in the newspapers. It was the money, purely and simply. It was amazing how attractive that made him.

  Anna, her father, and their lawyers were already waiting for him when he arrived at his attorney’s office. “Good morning,” he said pleasantly.

  Anna didn’t answer, she merely stared, a sullen look on her face that accentuated the shadow on her upper lip, which persisted despite the elaborate and expensive electrolysis. Amos Abidijan grunted some indistinguishable answer. Their two attorneys shook hands and Marcel sat down.

  He glanced at his attorney questioningly. Schacter cleared his throat. “I thought it best to wait until you came.”

  Marcel nodded. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll begin then.” Schacter turned to the others and cleared his throat. This was old routine to him. Rich people and their divorces. Money was always the great complication. No matter how much there was, there was never enough for two. One or the other always felt he or she had to have the lion’s share.

  “Ordinarily I would try to effect a reconciliation,” he said smoothly, “but we all are agreed that matters have progressed beyond a point where any such attempt would be practical.”

  He waited for a moment, then continued. “What we are faced with then is the best way to reach an agreement between both parties to a divorce which will have the least possible bad effects on the children involved. To that end my client, because of his love for the children, is willing to agree to any reasonable determination we can work out. He has no desire to see the children involved in a long disputed court action.”

  “There is nothing your client could do that would involve the children,” one of the other attorneys said quickly. “There is no question that Mrs. Campion has been an exemplary wife and mother.”

  Schacter smiled agreeably. “We do not dispute that here. However, in a court we should be forced to act in quite another manner, regardless of our personal feelings. You understand that.”

  Amos Abidijan couldn’t remain silent. “What about the money he owes me?”

  “What money? So far as I know my client owes you no money.”

  “It was my money he used to found his business. We were working together on the deal, and he stole it.”

  “That’s not true,” Marcel replied quickly, “you know very well that you turned me down on the proposal. It was you who suggested I look elsewhere for financing. You didn’t want any part of it.”

  “Gentlemen.” Schacter held up his hands. “Please, one thing at a time. This is not the subject under discussion at the moment.”

  “You can’t separate them,” Abidijan replied angrily. “He used my daughter. He used me. Now he thinks he can throw her over because he has what he wanted. We’ll agree to nothing until that question is settled.”

  “In other words, Mr. Abidijan,” Schacter said smoothly, “a divorce between your daughter and Mr. Campion is contingent entirely upon a financial agreement with you?”

  “I didn’t say that! I’m only interested in seeing that my daughter and grandchildren are amply protected. I don’t want anything for myself.”

  “Then you would have no objections if a settlement was worked out for their benefit exclusively?”

  “I would have no objections,” Abidijan replied stiffly.

  “Neither would we,” Schacter said quickly. “Now, since we are agreed in principle we can proceed to actualities. Do you have any suggestion as to what you would consider an equitable settlement?”

  “It’s very simple,” Abidijan said before his attorneys could answer. “An outright settlement of five million dollars to cover past indebtednesses, and a division of all properties after that fifty-fifty.”

  Marcel got to his feet. He was not surprised at the demand. But it was stupid and Amos should have known it was. He
did not have that kind of money, and even if he had, he would never agree to it. He looked down at his father-in-law. “Amos,” he said quietly, “you’ve gone completely senile.” He turned to Anna. “I suggest before we meet again that you have a guardian appointed for your father.”

  Anna stared back at him. There was a thin white line of tension around her mouth. “It isn’t my father who has gone mad but you with your desire for money and power. What do you think all those women who are hanging around you want? You’re not that handsome. What are you trying to prove?”

  Marcel turned to his attorney. “I told you a meeting would be useless. I will file suit in Corteguay as originally planned.”

  “It would not be recognized here,” one of her attorneys said quickly.

  “I think it will,” Schacter replied quietly. “You see, my client is a citizen of Corteguay, and under their laws, so are his wife and children. Our laws are quite specific on that point. Any divorce, if valid in the country of the participants, is valid here.”

  “Mrs. Campion is an American citizen.”

  “Not according to the laws of Corteguay,” Schacter replied smoothly, “and I’m willing to dispute that in court with you after my client has obtained the divorce.”

  Abidijan looked at his attorneys. This was something he hadn’t expected. And he was familiar enough with laws of other countries through his shipping business to know that anything was possible. “I would like to speak privately with you.”

  Schacter got to his feet. “Don’t move,” he said. “My client and I will go into another office.”

  Marcel looked at Schacter as the door closed behind them. “What do you think?”

  Schacter nodded confidently. “We got them. I just hope the information you gave me about Corteguayan law is correct.”

  Marcel smiled. “If it’s not,” he said, “I’m sure I can arrange the necessary legislation. And that would be much less expensive than Amos’ demands.”

  22

  “I’ll go to Paris for my wedding gown,” Amparo said, “and from there Dax and I will go on a grand tour of Europe.”

  “You are not going anywhere,” el Presidente replied quietly, “you are staying here. Your gown will be made locally as your mother’s was.”

  Amparo walked over to the front of his desk and stared down at him. “What gown of my mother’s?” she asked sarcastically. “You were never married.”

  “That has nothing to do with it; your mother never went to Paris for a gown.”

  “How could she?” Amparo retorted. “You were even afraid to let her out of the house for fear she might leave you.”

  El Presidente got to his feet. “You will call in a dressmaker; you will remain here. There is much for you to do—”

  “I have done enough already! Now I want to see what the rest of the world is like. I don’t have to stay here and wallow in the filth along with the campesinos.”

  “Don’t forget that you owe your exalted position to the campesinos!” the old man roared. “Who gave you the name la princesa? They did. Who set you up as an example to Corteguayan women? The campesinos.”

  “So I must spend the rest of my life being eternally grateful to them?”

  “Exactly. You do not belong to yourself, you belong to the people.”

  “I might as well be in prison.” Suddenly a new thought struck her. “You mean I am to remain here while my husband goes gallivanting all over the world?”

  El Presidente nodded. “He has his job to do, just as you have yours.”

  Amparo began to laugh. “You must be out of your mind. You know what kind of man he is; women won’t leave him alone. At a party in New York, out of the twelve women there, he had been to bed with eleven of them.”

  El Presidente was suddenly curious. “He told you that?”

  “Of course not, but I am no fool. I can tell from the way a woman acts whether she has been to bed with a particular man.”

  El Presidente was thoughtful for a moment. “The twelfth woman—what was she like?”

  Amparo stared at him. “Too old, much too old.”

  “You’re a fool,” he said, “the marriage will be good for you. You know how the people feel about Dax. They worship him. Just as they do you.”

  “It will be no good,” she said darkly. “Not for him nor for me. We’re too much alike. We’re physical people.”

  “Don’t talk like that!” he shouted, angry again. “Remember, you’re a lady.”

  She glared at him. “How can I be with your blood in me? Look at you. At your age most men would be glad to sit down in the evening with a cigar and a brandy. But no, you must have a new woman every week.”

  He glared back. “Men are different.”

  “You think so?” she taunted. “What makes you think I am not my mother all over again? And you know how she was.”

  He was suddenly silent. After a moment, he said, “I would have married her if she had lived.”

  “I don’t believe you. If she had lived, she would have fared no better than all the others. You would have tired of her and thrown her out.”

  He thought for a moment. “I have changed my mind. You will be married within the week, and Dax will not go to Paris. Instead I shall send him to Korea with the battalions I have promised the United Nations.”

  Amparo jumped to her feet angrily. “He will be killed. He is no soldier.”

  “He will be perfectly safe,” el Presidente replied. “Colonels never get killed, they remain safely behind the lines at their headquarters. At least then you won’t have to worry about him. There are no attractive women there.”

  “If there are, he will find them,” Amparo said sullenly. Then she noticed the look on his face. “You would like to see him killed, wouldn’t you? He has become too popular.”

  El Presidente met her eyes steadily. “How can you say that? Dax is like my own son.”

  “You are some father,” she said sarcastically. “It is not enough to marry him off to me; no, that might make him even more popular. So you send him off to get killed.”

  El Presidente ignored her accusations as if he hadn’t heard them. He glanced at his watch. “Come, it is time for us to get dressed. The ceremonies are due to begin at three o’clock.”

  “We are a big-shot country now. The people must see how important we are to the Naciones Unidos.”

  “We are important. The Secretary General does not visit each new nation when it is admitted.”

  “It is not the Secretary General who is coming, it is only his assistant.”

  “What difference does that make?” he retorted. “The campesinos will not know the difference.”

  Amparo got to her feet. “I need a drink, my mouth feels dirty.”

  “It is too early in the day for you to drink. It is not yet noon.”

  “Then I will not drink rum,” she answered lightly. “I will drink a norteamericano drink called a martini. It is one o’clock in New York.”

  El Presidente watched as she walked to the door. He spoke just before she opened it. “Amparo?”

  She looked back at him. “Yes, Father.”

  He was silent for a moment staring into her eyes. “Trust me.”

  Amparo’s head rose as if she were thinking about what he had said. Then she answered, but there was a kind of hopelessness in her voice. “How can I, when I dare not even trust myself?”

  ***

  A man shuffled along the crowded streets, his worn dark suit hanging loosely on his emaciated frame. He kept his face averted, his eyes looking downward toward the ground, for they were not yet accustomed to the bright sun of day after the many months in the tiny dark cell. He moved awkwardly in a kind of old man’s shuffle because the broken leg had not set evenly, and he kept his right hand in his pocket to hide the ugly, twisted, broken fingers that were too repulsive for even his own eyes.

  A passerby bumped into him and he apologized, revealing a mouth empty of teeth. The guards had knocked them out savagely
with their rifle butts. He saw the expression on the passerby’s face and quickly he averted his face again. Moving aimlessly, he allowed himself to be caught up in the flow of the crowd and carried along.

  He was free, though he didn’t quite believe it yet. It had all come too suddenly, too unexpectedly. Just that morning the heavy steel door to his cell had opened. He had been lying on the small heap of rags that constituted his bed, and instinctively he had tried to make himself smaller as he peered up at the guard. Dully he had wondered what they were going to do with him now.

  A small bundle had thumped to the floor beside him. “There are your clothes. Put them on.”

  He didn’t move, wondering what trickery they were up to now. Brutally the guard kicked him. “You heard me, get dressed!”

  Slowly, on his hands and knees, he crawled over to the bundle. He couldn’t undo the knots in the string because of his maimed right hand. The guard swore and bent over. A knife flashed and the cord fell apart. Trembling, he picked up the pants and studied them. They were not his; his suit had been new when they brought him in. These were old and faded and dirty and torn. He looked up at the guard.

  “Hurry up! I haven’t got all day.”

  As quickly as he could, he got into the clothes. At last he was dressed. The guard grabbed him by the shoulder and pushed him toward the door. “Outside!”

  He half stumbled through into the corridor, and stood there waiting until the guard had locked the cell door. He had difficulty keeping up as they marched down the cell block.

  Purposely he kept his mind blank until they had passed the stairway that led to the subterranean interrogation rooms. Only then did he allow himself to speculate about where they were going. At least there was to be no torture this time. Somehow the possibility that they might be taking him to his execution did not disturb him. Death seemed preferable to the room downstairs.

  They passed through the steel door at the end of the cell block and turned down the corridor. Silently he followed the guard into the office of the warden.

  A burly sergeant major looked up as they came in. “Is he the last?”

  “Sí.”